


Reap the Whirlwind

by Quixotic



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Casual Murder, Gladiators, Interplanetary Politics, M/M, Perilous Gay, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Prison Sex, Slavery, Space Jail, Spark Sex, hate love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2167113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixotic/pseuds/Quixotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cybertronian politics take a back seat for the first time in thousands of years, when both side's leaders are captured and forced into the slavery of another species - as none other than gladiators in an interplanetary arena. While for Megatron it is primarily an unpleasant bit of nostalgia, Optimus finds himself light years from everything he knows. Cybertronians are not well liked, and in order to survive Megatron may find himself relying on an ally long since forsaken, and Optimus on the advice of his greatest enemy.</p>
<p>And then they fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The cells felt more like coffins than prisons – in size, shape, _and_ likelihood of survival. This single corridor was host to dozens of them, a gleaming white stretch of walls lined with containment field doors. Their shimmering surfaces were only transparent in one direction, inward, so that one could casually observe each captive on a stroll, while those inside the cells could only see yet another blank wall. 

A bit maddening, perhaps, but most of their acquisitions were kept in stasis when they didn't need to be observed. It was processing time, which meant that stock needed to sorted and sold off to appropriate buyers. Usually that would require a lot of careful marketing and sales pitches, but this one was going to be easy. It was a very particular catch for a very particular buyer, and the terms had been set before the targets were ever picked up.

Trafficking was a Collective specialty, but Cybertronians were a well known liability, and few wanted to dip their hands in that particular pot just for the sake of it. A public sale would have been more bother than it was worth, but as a mercenary operation it was a fast paycheck and a chance to prove one's mettle for the future.

This was going to be an in and out operation, and the Collective sales representative's stride was confident as she led the client towards the big cages. Most of the cells in this area had to be custom fit for some reason or another, and the ceiling stretched upwards over fifty feet for the tallest of them. The containment fields here cut particularly striking views of the various beings and beasts held within. 

This one was hard to miss.

The Cybertronian was large even by its species' standards, standing nearly forty feet tall and covered in thick, durable plating in shades of red and blue. The transforming abilities of its kind made them a particular threat, and especially hard to capture, and so that had been kept in mind with its holding cell. Its arms were bound in heavy shackles that would compress its panels enough to render shifting impossible. Those were currently locked into a waist height pillar that branched outward into the cell walls and also pinned its feet in place, metal bands locking its tires and gripping all the way up to its knees.

Its eyes were closed – perhaps in its restorative state. The sales representative's status documents said that it had been muzzled after refusing to remain silent when told.

The representative approached the wall that lined the window, tapping a code into its near imperceptible interface with a specialized glove. The transparency of the containment field switched so that it could be seen through both ways, abruptly exposing the Cybertronian to the world outside.

She was just about to administer a small shock to wake it up when it opened its eyes unbidden, indicating that it had likely not actually been unconscious in the first place. The blue light of its optics were sharp with restrained anger, immediately focusing on the two beings outside its cage.

That was the only window into its rebellious nature, with it silenced and near immobilized, but the tendency had been noted. Even now, it strained near imperceptibly against the metal pillar binding it, testing the limits of its hold. A threat, to be sure.

The client was a Nebulan in a full suit of body armor, making any of its more personal characteristics ambiguous. The Collective representative was unconcerned. Everything was already finished in the books, anyway. All the client needed to do was confirm the identities of the acquisitions, and then settle on any additional purchases.

The Nebulan raised the scanner imbedded in their arm, analyzing the energy signature of the Cybertronian's spark. In the meantime, the representative tapped in another command to the interface, temporarily relieving the Cybertronian of its muzzle, which pulled back into nodes set at the sides of its helm.

It vented a harsh burst of air, releasing a small cloud of exhaust from its mouth as its internal engines growled. It did not immediately speak, however. Apparently it had learned its lesson. For now.

“Designation?” the representative asked, tapping her datapad. She already knew the answer, obviously. It was a completely pointless question. It was also an excellent way to test compliance.

“Optimus Prime,” it replied, after a delay. The glare of its optics intensified, moving between the Nebulan and the representative. The Nebulan said nothing, focusing instead on its scanner.

“Optimus Prime,” the representative repeated, satisfied. “Your custody is being purchased by an outside party. You will be transferred within the cycle. Full compliance is expected.”

“A sentient being cannot be _purchased_ ,” it growled, straining more obviously against its bonds.

“You have been apprehended under the jurisdiction of our sector.”

“Interplanetary law-”

“The Cybertronian species has no protection under the Galactic Council. We have followed our own code to the letter, and you have no right to demand further justification.”

The Cybertronian pushed forward as far as it could go, an edge of desperation in its words.

“I have broken no law!”

“That's debatable,” the Nebulan said, suddenly present after a long period of silence. They lowered their scanner, apparently content with the results. They turned to the representative. “We'll take the set.”

“Excellent,” the representative said, reactivating the muzzle just as the Cybertronian was about to object, leaving them with nothing but a pained grunt. The representative was relieved that this one would no longer be her problem.

Before she could hear any more complaining, she reset the containment field back to one way viewing capacity, closing out the Cybertronian's sight of them as it struggled uselessly inside. She gestured for the client to follow with one of her exceptionally long fingers.

“Now, to discuss the others...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed more gay robots in my life.

Optimus didn't fight it for long after that. He already knew that it would be a waste of energy. He had been imprisoned on this vessel for a length of time measuring in weeks already, and he had made no shortage of attempts at escape, but their containment of him was too cautious; they had known fully what to expect. It felt as if he had no cards in his hand that they did not already know about, and it left his hours filled with dark and listless thoughts.

The isolation of it was harsh, even for him, but it was far from his chief concern. He had lived for thousands of years already, and had faced situations as dire as this. But at least those had taken place in a context that he understood.

He knew that he was a prisoner, but he did not fully understand his captors' motives. He knew that they felt justified, but he did not know what was ultimately intended for him, beyond the theft of all his freedoms and day after day of humiliation.

He did not consider himself better than any other life form, but he had never before been made to feel so small.

In a metaphorical sense, at least.

His joints ached from immobility, the minor adjustments he could make to his stance doing nothing to ease his pain. The metal encasing his arms and legs would not shift, leaving him feeling more like a tired statue than an Autobot soldier. It was wearing on him, physically and mentally. 

More than anything he was worried. Worried for his comrades and what would become of them in his absence, if they had not been taken the same way he had. He was more angry about being taken from his duties than he was about being imprisoned, even though he felt that this cruelty was unacceptable in any circumstance.

His tanks turned at the idea of the words the alien at his cell had used. 'The set', they had said. Did that mean that they had captured his fellow Autobots along with him? There was a flickering feeling of hope at the idea of being able to see them again, though he knew it wasn't worth it, not if it meant that they too would be subjected to this.

But he felt so very alone.

After several hours they returned for him, as promised. Optimus had no expectations of whether this transfer of 'custody' would prove better or worse than his current situation, but he was starting to think that any change from the claustrophobic four walls of his cell would be preferable.

His optics focused as the containment field abruptly fell away, revealing a group of 'escorts' wearing full protective exoskeletons and wielding the chains that would be required to move him. With a flood of relief, he felt his restraints begin to pull away, freeing his legs and leaving his shackles able to move from place. They were quick to replace that constraint with the chains, however, latching them to the ring that bound his upper arms and chest.

They yanked him out of his cell, and his numbed legs stumbled, causing him to fall down to his knees. They attached more chains until there was a crew of four guiding him – each being was around ten feet tall and surprisingly strong with the enhancements of their exoskeletons.

Optimus glared at them, his optics flashing brightly, unable to verbally object but showing every ounce of his displeasure in his expression. He jerked a shoulder away from them, testing their ability to contain him, but the exoskeletons seemed to have their feet magnetised to the ground, leaving him unable to pull them from place.

One of them flipped a switch on the handle of their 'leash' and a powerful jolt of electricity shook his entire frame. He groaned behind his muzzle, bending forward over his shackled arms.

“Get up,” one of them ordered as the electricity receded. He stared at them with hazy optics, trying to think through his rattled processor. “Do you want me to do it again?”

He vented exhaust through his pipes in a harsh snort of anger, and clumsily started trying to get to his feet. Without use of his arms it was slow and humiliating, but he could see no purpose in resisting further now. As hard as it was to swallow, if he was going to find a chance to escape, he would need to wait for it.

He allowed himself to be pulled along, his legs creaking with stiffness. They had only just left the hall of various prisons when they were joined by another party of escorts, hauling a surprisingly similar prisoner.

Optimus's spark flared with shock and disgust. His optics narrowed, engines growling in his chest and air venting from his pipes with faint puffs of smoke.

Megatron, similarly bound and wearing an expression of just barely contained fury, hissed out a harsh laugh.

“Optimus!” he said, baring his fangs in a vicious sneer. He was, notably, not muzzled. “It would seem that you have been having trouble appealling to your new audience!”

Optimus really would have liked to retort to that, but the muzzle kept him silent. Humiliation bled through his spark once again. His engines growled more loudly, his upset distracting him from keeping pace. One of his escorts gave him a vicious tug, bringing him stumbling forward and doing nothing for his limited dignity.

Megatron laughed more loudly.

“Did you find his preaching as tiresome as I have?” Megatron mused to the escorts, grinning wickedly. They did not seem especially interested in what he had to say, but he kept going anyway. “Perhaps we have more in common than I thought...”

They were being led into a cargo hanger, filled with docked ships and aliens of all shapes and sized. This, presumably, was where they were be transported to their new prison. Optimus found himself searching the area, looking for any spark of an idea or hope that could lead to him somehow getting free of this. Megatron continued talking, unbidden.

“Being a Prime, it makes him a touch... simple, you could say.” Optimus cut him a glare that could have seared metal, but Megatron ignored him. “He lacks the capacity to understand circumstances such as this.”

“Keep quiet,” one of the escorts finally snapped. “Unless you want one, too.”

Megatron pulled back his lips in a flash of knife-sharp fangs.

“I, however,” he said, ignoring his escort. “ _I_ understand the games of your kind all too well.”

The escort behind him seemed about ready to give him a thrashing, when Megatron took their distraction to his advantage. He wrenched against the chain with a sudden burst of terrible strength, so violent that it managed to pull their suit's magnetic grip clean from the floor, dragging them into range of the warlord's cloven feet.

Megatron crushed the escort brutally under foot, to the sound of crunching metal and bone. Bodily fluids in shades of yellow and green squelched onto the floor, staining the unpainted silver of Megatron's leg.

The other escorts reacted quickly. All three of them activated their switches simultaneously, sending Megatron down to his knees in an overpowering strike of electricity through his body. It lasted at least a minute until he was released from that punishment, but when he was, Megatron's only reaction was a sneer.

Optimus's optics were wide.

“Consider this your first taste of my wrath,” Megatron said, and endured the pain that followed with barely a sound.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, get a room.

To say that Megatron's stunt would prove to make their lives more difficult could be considered an understatement. Unwilling to meet the same fate as their crushed team member, all of their escorts proceeded to take every blink and misplaced step as a reason to punish them, handling their transport with much more scrutiny than they would have otherwise.

They were dragged into one of the docked cargo vessels, and no one wasted any time making sure that they were secured and no longer the escorts' problems. There was a good deal of effort put into trying to intimidate Megatron, to little effect. He only laughed at them, sharp and cruel, until one of them threatened to muzzle him and he only gave them a smile that would wither most organic life forms instantly.

They didn't muzzle him, in the end. No one wanted to risk getting close enough to try. Muted throughout this entire ordeal, Optimus was more than a little bitter about this dichotomy.

They forced them to kneel in the ship's small cargo bay, locking their shackles into docks similar to the ones that had been in the standing cages. A set of clamps rose to pin them at the heels, and then their chains were fixed to hooks in the floor around them. There was barely enough room in the cargo bay for the two of them. They were made to face each other, their helms only a scarce ten feet apart.

Optimus sagged in his chains, both exhausted and unwilling to face Megatron at that time. He felt that he had the tolerance to deal with Megatron, or with being enslaved, and not both. He felt that that should be a reasonable limit to have.

He could feel the vessel leave the hangar. As their journey began, Megatron had taken to ogling him uncomfortably while he tried as hard as he could to pretend that the Decepticon wasn't even there. Though the first leg of the journey ended up being blessedly quiet, Megatron had an unsurprising dislike of being ignored.

“They punish us because they fear us,” Megatron said, apropos of nothing. Optimus still refrained from looking at him – he had no interested in indulging his rambling when he was incapable of even responding. “It is as it should be.”

Something about that assertion drew Optimus's focus against his better judgment. It was a fundamental difference in tactics – sheer arrogance. Considering that he had heard Megatron suggest that the two of them were gods not that long before, it felt like an especially poisonous concept.

He turned to glare at him, roaring his engines and making his disapproval known, even if he could not speak. Megatron scoffed at him.

“You are a fool, Optimus Prime,” he said. “For all the wisdom you claim to have, you still fail to see the world around you for what it really is. Did you really believe that you could _talk_ your way out of this?”

Optimus vented a burst of air, glancing away. If he had believed that in the beginning, he certainly didn't now. Megatron chuckled darkly.

“Even when you were, perhaps, more equipped to the task.”

Oh, _come on._

Optimus turned back to him, scowling. He didn't know why he was letting himself be provoked like this. He had argued with Megatron for millennia over a multitude of subjects, and he knew full well that there was hardly any point. Nothing would change.

He may as well have been mute from the start, so far as Megatron was concerned.

“It is your fundamental misunderstanding, Optimus,” Megatron went on, happy to pontificate while his nemesis was helpless to do anything but huff and growl in reply. “I would far rather be punished and feared by my masters than be a cooperative slave.”

This was age-old baggage and they both knew it. Megatron liked to pretend that he couldn’t possibly understand his motivations, which was a very different thing from not agreeing with them. Optimus had been there with him, in Kaon, all those years ago. He hadn’t forgotten.

Optimus yanked on his chains, as if to suggest that he wasn’t exactly cooperating, here. He had been trying to appeal to their better natures, and there was a difference.

Which he would have been happy to explain, but Megatron continued to have him at a very annoying disadvantage.

“I do wonder what you might have said to earn your silence,” he mused, watching Optimus struggle with intent red optics. Megatron, for his part, remained very still. “I suppose you hoped that if you were to explain to them the error of their ways, they would send you on your way?”

The longer this went on, the less Optimus could summon up any response other than weary resignation. Some of the fire faded from his optics as he leveled him a tired, half lidded stare. Yes, Megatron. Do go on. This is so very interesting.

Megatron was, unsurprisingly, undeterred. “You are naïve. You have been naïve since the day we first met.” He scoffed.

Optimus was beginning to wonder why Megatron felt the need to drag out their most ancient of disagreements and put it on parade, but as the Decepticon continued to ramble, something slowly began to occur to him.

Megatron had presumably had as many solitary hours to consider his situation as Optimus had – a situation that was undeniably applicable to the life that they had both left behind on Cybertron. Megatron had been a slave then, and for the first time in thousands of years, he was again, with no clear venue of escape.

“I imagine you felt that I was out of line crushing that insect of a jail keeper as well.” Optimus had actually had mixed feelings about that, but knew that that was neither here nor there. “I assure you, you can expect no mercy from the likes of them.”

Optimus’s optics narrowed. There was a certain tension to Megatron’s stillness, and an indulgence to his words that exceeded the usual.

The most intense veins of Optimus’s anger began to bleed away. When the only land in sight was that of your enemy, he supposed you enjoyed their company in whatever way you could.

“Such a good listener, Optimus!” Megatron said. “I should consider their modifications an improvement.”

Optimus gave him an unimpressed glare, hunched his shoulders, and vented a stream of smoke into his face through his exhaust pipes. Megatron laughed like that was the best thing that had happened all day. Then he coughed. Then he just laughed some more.

It was hysterical even by Megatron standards, but Optimus was officially too tired of everything to be notably irritated. Megatron could talk all he wanted, Optimus decided.

Even tyrants needed their ways to cope.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a long voyage with an especially chatty Megatron, and one would have hoped that after that things would improve. They did not, however, and Optimus soon found himself wishing to return to the familiarity of his enemy, even if the thought of that alone made him want to expel fluids.

Megatron had finally fallen silent by the time they docked, and as they were pulled in separate directions, he only spared Optimus a silent gaze, and then nothing. Optimus felt much the same way. He was dragged into the depths of his new prison, limping in his chains. His joints were stiff and poorly lubricated from lack of motion, and his whole body ached. His energon levels, never filled more than a bare minimum since his capture, were trickling down to critical once again.

Primus save him. He was far from broken, but did not want to experience how far he would be pushed. That he would fight until his last breath did not change the fact that he was in the hands of those that would see him fall. The steadying presence of the Matrix of Leadership within him was a rare bit of comfort. Its wisdom was a part of him, and he had to trust that it would continue to guide him through this new darkness.

There would be hope for him. There had to be.

His feeling of ill ease only became more intense as they came to their destination. It was not just another jail cell – it was a bay clearly intended for construction and steady, with a variety of unknown machinery and technology that purred in the background. He was dragged to an isolated chamber, with a platform that he already doubted the purpose of. He could already see the beginnings of what would become more restraints, and the realization came over him like a physical compacting of his spark.

He tried to resist, but there was nothing for it. He was painstakingly manhandled into position, at which point the machine seized his legs once again, pinning them in place. A separate automation locked onto his shackles and opened them – only to enclose his hands into fresh bonds and pull them high above his head, stretching his frame wide and leaving him fully exposed. His groans were contained by his muzzle, his shoulder having been so sedentary that moving them so suddenly was its own pain .

He vented harshly, trying to stave off the pain in his body and also his own fear. He had no idea what would happen to him, but he needed to remain focused and in control of himself – now more than ever.

His escorts left him, then. He remained in that room alone, beneath the glare of computer screens and the threat of machinery, for over an hour. He fought his bindings with what strength he had left, but it was not enough.

He had fallen into a near recharge before anyone joined him. It was another one of those armour wearing aliens. Nebulans, he thought. 

They ignored him at first, and he was helpless to do anything but watch them carry on about their business. They arrived at the most central terminal and began interacting with it, minutely shifting the positions of Optimus's bonds until they were deemed satisfactory. Some sort of scanning process was triggered, several mechanical arms activating and roving across the surface of his body, shedding near penetrating light over his plating. 

He watched them, his optics resigned but still searching. There were so many questions that he wished he could ask.

Eventually the Nebulan looked up at him, and tapped a command into the interface. His muzzle finally retracted. 

“I've heard that you like to talk,” the Nebulan said. “So let's talk.”

To say that Optimus Prime liked to talk was a gross exaggeration, but when it had been mostly withheld from him for months already, that was a loaded proposition. He tried to gather his thoughts, but one question rang out ahead of all the others.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked, his optics searching and sharp with the edge of desperation. “Why am I being imprisoned?”

“Related answers, but still distinct,” they commented, crossing their arms over their chest. “You are being imprisoned because that is the way that most of the galaxy wants you – or at least what you, as the Autobot commander, represent. Maybe you don't notice the ants you've been stepping on, all the way up there, but Cybertronians aren't well liked. Most of us has been thinking that it's about time that someone else cleans up your mess.”

Optimus's optics widened, and then narrowed. He didn't even consider denying the accusation, even if the severity of the situation had passed him by. The war had gone on for so long, and while Optimus had always devoted part of his efforts towards the protection and preservation of the species that happened to come in contact with their conflict...there was always the next struggle, the next battle, and when the opposing side had no interest in the same attempts at conservation, he had no doubt that his people had been seen as a scourge to those around them.

He just hadn't realized it was this bad. Not until it was already too late. 

His gaze fell, and he felt remorse, even as he had been imprisoned and tortured. Was this really what Cybertron had become in the eyes of the galaxy? 

“...I have always done all that I could to prevent collateral damage,” he said, slowly. He wasn't trying to excuse himself, but some part of him just wished that he could explain, or that his explanation really meant anything in the end. “I am truly sorry if our war has so negatively affected the lives of others. It is not our right.”

There was a moment of silence, the Nebulan's reaction impossible to read through the mask of their armor. 

“...Sorry isn't good enough anymore,” they said, at last, returning to their terminal. “Which is sort of why you're here.” They started entering commands, and Optimus could hear the whir of machinery shifting, though he could not yet see its source. “We decided to acquire you for our collection, because those in charge wanted to cash in on all that interspecies tension. You'll get to keep fighting, but it's going to be for sport.”

It took Optimus a moment to process that. It was almost poetic.

“...Gladitorial combat,” he said.

“More or less. There are a lot of beings out there that would pay good money for the chance to watch the propogators of the Cybertronian plague die. You'll probably survive at least a few rounds.” There was something tired and listless about the way the Nebulan explained. “Being one of the bad reputation fighters is a tough angle to work but I hear it's doable.”

Optimus felt himself go tense, fully realizing the implications of this all. He shook his helm.

“I will not kill for you,” he said. The Nebulan only paused for a moment. 

“Then I guess you'll die instead.”

Optimus was about to retort to that when the purpose of the movements he'd heard became clear. A metal arm clasped the back of his head, holding his helm in place. A moment later it was followed by a cold presence piercing the medical port on the back of his neck. He growled in pain, the device penetrating his processor like a needle.

His firewalls immediately came into action, pushing back against the code that was trying to enforce itself upon his systems. With subconscious effort, he started filing away all but the most basic of his thought processes, protecting them from this unwanted influence. Anti viral programming kicked in, cleaning away what pieces got by.

His defenses held – for the moment. The feeling of this war in his mind was like a painful vertigo.

“Stop,” he said between clenched dental plates, instinctively trying to pull his helm away from the cable, but unable to move much at all. The Nebulan sighed, behind their armoured mask.

“Who knows,” they said, ignoring the sounds of is discomfort and pain so that they could finish what they were doing. “Maybe we'll be doing your species a favour, with this. Cut off both of the heads of this mess, and maybe the rest of you will find something better to do with your time.”

“Please,” Optimus said. “I implore you for your mercy.”

They went without another word, leaving him to suffer alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron, stop using so many itallics. It's making everyone uncomfortable.

Optimus couldn't remember what had happened to him, after that. There was a hazy outline of concepts and sensations, perhaps, but in retrospect it was nearly impossible to tell where it began or ended. Their attempts of hijacking his mind had decayed into an unintelligible psychic mess.

He remembered something sharp probing beneath his plating, and that at some point he must have become unconscious. By the time he fully came back to his senses, he was somewhere else, and things had changed.

He was slumped in some kind of holding cell where the darkness was near pitch. The light of his optics cast only vague illumination around him, but there didn't seem to be much to see. He was alone, and for the first time in months, he was unbound. He carefully flexed his arms and legs, wincing at the stiffness in them. It wasa surreal sensation.

Maybe he remembered being escorted somewhere, but he was not sure if that memory was one real or invented. It didn't take much consideration to realize where he was probably going to end up next.

Both his guns and his swords were functioning again. His alt mode was unlocked. He began pacing the claustrophobic interior of his cell, trying to anticipate their next move. They were going to make him fight, they'd said. Both him and Megatron.

He didn't have the chance to get much further than that when his circumstances were made clear. The roof above him opened up like a gateway, and the floor began to rise.

He was raised, stumbling, into the light of an arena. Around him was a dilapidated city of stone and metal, reduced to ruins through what he could only guess was round after round of combat. It was scaled to a species of perhaps a quarter his size, and left him sticking out much the same way he did on Earth.

He was not alone.

Across a clearing stood Megatron, examining his surroundings with a cold eye. Though the last time Optimus had seen him, he was still bearing the arm of a dead Prime like some kind of sickening trophy, it had since been replaced with his original canon and sword.

They were quick to spot each other. Those dangerous red optics lingered on Optimus for a long few moments without a word to accompany them. Were they to fight each other, as well? It had never been made clear.

Optimus cycled out one of his guns in warning. Megatron merely sneered.

“Let us not forget our true enemies in this place,” he said, with a clear degree of dark satisfaction. Optimus narrowed his optics.

“Our shared predicament does not excuse your actions, Megatron,” Optimus growled, glad that this time he actually _could_ talk back. Megatron was unfazed.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “But if you wish to survive long enough to return to your Autobots, you will heed my advice. You may be a warrior, Optimus Prime, but you know nothing of the world you have entered.”

Part of Optimus was annoyed that he would imply he could not comprehend something so glaring – they were prisoners, and they trying to make them into slaves. However, when he actually paused a moment to think about it objectively, it was obvious why Megatron would consider himself to have more experience here. He _had_ been a gladiator, all those years ago.

The different was that when Megatron had fought in the arena, it had been consensual. His personal slavery had taken place in the mines.

Optimus withheld his criticisms for a moment as he tried to see past his own built up anger. Reasonably, Megatron had a point. _Reasonably._

“What of this, then?” Optimus asked, conceding that, if only for a moment. “Do they intend for us to do battle? What purpose would you have for enabling me to survive?”

Megatron laughed.

“As ever, you are lacking a flair for the dramatic!” He raised a clawed hand. “I suspect they will have us fight, but not today. This is only the beginning.” He smirked. “I am surprised that you didn't put more effort into understanding your situation – it has left you at a tactical disadvantage.”

Was Megatron implying that he knew more about what they were intended to do here than he did? Was it factual information, or was he simply assuming his intuitions were correct? The uncertainty was off putting – almost as much as the idea of actually cooperating with Megatron's smug self aggrandizement

“I refuse to be toyed with, Megatron,” he said, his engines rumbling. “If you have a proposal, then make it.”

“A truce, then,” Megatron said with a sweep of his hand. “We have done it once before in the name of survival. Surely you can be made to see reason once again.”

There were so many things irritatingly _wrong_ about that statement, but Optimus refused to be drawn into an argument of petty semantics.

“...Then there are others, in this arena,” Optimus said, realizing the purpose behind Megatron's scheming. Megatron made another grand gesture.

“I would be a waste to eliminate such... _tension_ so early in the game.” The way that Megatron just said 'tension' was so wholly unnecessary. “Instead, we will be fighting an assortment of other gladiators. Them...against _us._ ”

Optimus stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head, beginning to back away. “No. I will not fight for them.” Megatron gave him an incredulous look, shortly followed by an angry one.

“You are not being given a choice, Optimus Prime,” Megatron growled. “Do not be a fool. The warriors that are placed in this arena alongside us have been chosen by _request._ They _hunger_ for the opportunity to extinguish a spark such as yours.”

“And how am I to trust the word of the Lord of the Decepticons?” Optimus snapped, and he made up his mind. He didn’t know if it was the right choice, but he had to at least try. “I will find a different way.”

He shifted into his alt mode, and roared off into the ruins. He could hear Megatron yell after him.

“You will be your own undoing!” 

Maybe he would be. But at least then it would be on his own terms.


End file.
